


no one believes me

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dark, Dark Natasha Romanov, Dark Yelena Belova, F/F, Female Character of Color, Female Reader, Multi, Non-Consensual Fingering, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Female Character, Praise Kink, Precious Peter Parker, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Vaginal Fingering, dark enough for it not to show when she blushes, i repeat this story deals with NONCON between the main pairings, reader is mixed, reader is mixed - hinted japanese and another unspecified ethnicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27735208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Uneasiness churns in your gut. Something’s wrong here. “I-Is everything okay, Natasha?”The corner of Natasha’s lips twitch like they do when she’s amused (you think), but it feels like an eternity before she finally says something. “Have dinner with me.”You blink, thrown by the abrupt change of subject. “Wh-What?”“Dinner,” she says, a single brow arched. “With me.”You shudder as the pad of her thumb tenderly strokes the underside of your jaw. “I-It’s a li-little late for dinner, isn’t it?” Your voice comes out at least an octave higher than usual.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Reader, Peter Parker & Reader, Yelena Belova/Natasha Romanov/Reader, Yelena Belova/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 108





	no one believes me

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't read the tags READ the TAGS dude. this is dark!natasha and dark!yelena and the things that happen between them and the reader are NOT consensual
> 
> got this as a commission from someone who asked to remain anonymous 
> 
> my first time writing something like this, so pls feel free to let me know what you think
> 
> the title is from kid cudi's song of the same name, and i used it because for one of the lines in this bit, i wrote, "something is wrong here" which is also a lyric from the song
> 
> and if you somehow missed it, this is DARK. there is NON-CON. don't read if you aren't comfortable with it or if it'll trigger you in any way PLEASE

“Hold still,” you instruct gently. “We’re almost done.”

Peter hisses as you tug the polymer thread through flushed skin—his twelfth and final suture of the night.

“Sure,” he squeaks. “No problem.”

You feel your lips twitch, threatening a smile. 

The muscles in his back twitch as you tug the stringy fiber a little tighter through the gash along his lower spine before tying it off without flourish.

“Okay,” you announce, snipping the thread and tilting your head to examine your handiwork. “I think we’re all done here.”

“Yeah?” 

You smile, discarding the needle holders and suturing scissors onto the nearest tray. “Yeah. You can move now.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Peter hops down off the gurney and whirls around to face you with wide eyes and a boyish grin. If he’s at all abashed by his current state of undress (bare-chested, the sleeves of his suit knotted low around his trim waist), he doesn’t show it. 

“Thanks, Y/N!” he says earnestly, bounding over to snatch his phone off the nearest countertop. “You’re the best!” 

“Let me guess,” you remark dryly, brow raised. “Duty calls?”

Peter ducks his head and blushes, though by then he’s already halfway out the door. “Big algebra test—first block tomorrow!” he calls over his shoulder. “Wish me luck!”

“You won’t need it!” you call back. You don’t get a response to that (not that you expected to), just the muffled sound of his retreating footsteps scrambling up the steps. Still, you shake your head and chuckle to yourself all the same. Interactions with Peter were always a treat. 

With Peter’s leave, his sprightly energy (that which seemed to brighten the very room) follows after. Exhaustion seeps into your body, weighing heavy in your bones like lead. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s a quarter to eleven—well past the time you typically take your leave. 

You peel off your latex gloves (stained with blood and antiseptic), and deposit them in the nearest waste bin. Your lab coat comes off next, folded and laid neatly across your desk. 

You’ve only just finished shutting down the computer and washing your hands (twice) when you feel it—a prickling sensation at the nape of your neck, an ice-cold feeling blossoming in your chest. 

There’s someone in the room with you. 

The rubber soles of your Converse squeak against lacquered concrete as you turn briskly on your heel, heart thudding painfully in your chest, to see—

“Natasha,” you gasp out breathlessly, not bothering to hide the note of relief from your tone. (Either way, regardless of the effort you made or didn’t make, she would know. Natasha _always_ knew.)

“Hey, stranger.”

She slinks forth from the shadows wearing nothing but her tac suit and a wicked grin. Her mud-stained combat boots don’t make a single sound atop the concrete as she makes her approach; the effect is such that you can’t help feeling like cornered prey, moments from being devoured. 

But that’s ridiculous, you reason. It’s Natasha. Since the moment you stepped out from the late Dr. Helen Cho’s imposing shadow and into the world of superheroes and aliens and _S.H.I.E.L.D._ , she’s been nothing but pleasant towards you. Conciliatory, supportive—even if aloof and almost glacial at times. A friend, above all else. 

Since signing the _tremendously_ strict NDA about seven months prior (a non-negotiable condition of your employment under one Tony Stark), you couldn’t boast many of those. 

After all, companionship is so fundamentally reliant upon honesty, disclosure… trust. You could hardly be engaging in any of that so long as you remained working such long and grueling hours—hours you were strictly forbidden from ever speaking about—at the world-famous Avengers Tower. 

You did your best, in the beginning; but inevitably, you’d found it simply wasn’t plausible to live two separate lives—one at the Tower; one out _there_ , in a prosaic reality that had begun feeling less and less like your ‘reality’ with every passing day. 

Most days, you wake early—5:30am, sharp. Grab a can of Lo-Carb Monster Energy from the fridge (a truly horrid habit you picked up during undergrad), shower and brush teeth, get dressed. Out the door by 6:00am; catch the subway leaving the nearest station at 6:07. Through the Tower’s front entrance by 6:15, down in the lab (or occasionally the Medbay) by 6:20. 

It’s not exactly a requirement—in fact, Mr. Stark (never ‘Tony,’ as he constantly insists you address him) often makes it a point to tell you that you work far too much, and by no means ever have to arrive earlier than 8 or 9 in the morning. Still, you persist. 

It isn’t out of fear for your job (at least, not anymore); but rather, simply because you genuinely enjoy what you do. Of course, the annual six-figure salary (which you nearly fainted when you saw stipulated in your three-year contract) doesn’t at all hurt. (If anything, it only serves to motivate you all the more.)

And, sure, working for (and occasionally alongside) the world-renowned Avengers is a pretty cool part of it, too.

“Y/N.” Natasha’s stern tone jolts you back to the present. 

She’s directly in front of you, now, staring you down intently like she’ll unearth all your secrets if she looks long enough. (Considering her ridiculously uncanny powers of perception, you certainly wouldn’t put it past her.)

“Where’d you go just now?” she asks, her voice even and calm—betraying nothing. 

You bite your lip, ducking your head shyly. “Nothing, just—in my head, I guess.”

A finger beneath your chin gently (but firmly) urges your attentions higher, higher, higher, until you’re looking her right in the eye once more. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. 

“Why don’t you try that again, солнышко?” she coos, her tone wrought with something that sounds a hell of a lot like mock sympathy. “This time without the lying, preferably. After all, you’ve never been very good at it.” 

You feel your cheeks heat at the blatant condescension, and you can’t help giving thanks to a god you’re not quite sure you believe in that your tawny complexion does well to hide it. 

“S-Sorry,” you stammer, instantly yielding to Natasha’s authoritative demeanor like every modicum of your being is so desperately urging you to. “I was just thinking… thinking about my job here. How Mr. Stark took a chance on some random 24-year-old girl who barely managed to scam her way into a PhD—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Natasha interjects, warm fingers holding your chin steadfastly in place. “You’re brilliant, Y/N. Driven, earnest, _incredibly_ gifted.” 

If your cheeks felt hot before, they’re on _fire_ now—not even to mention a warm, heady sensation settling lower and lower in your abdomen that has your legs turning to Jell-O beneath you. But Natasha definitely doesn’t need to know that. 

“I—Th-Thank you,” you manage to murmur. “That’s… kind of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.” Natasha’s eyes upon yours are intense. Resolve— _engrossed_ , even. It makes your skin crawl. “I’ll never stop reminding you.”

Uneasiness churns in your gut. Something’s wrong here. “I-Is everything okay, Natasha?”

The corner of Natasha’s lips twitch like they do when she’s amused (you think), but it feels like an eternity before she finally says something. “Have dinner with me.”

You blink, thrown by the abrupt change of subject. “Wh-What?”

“Dinner,” she says, a single brow arched. “With me.”

You shudder as the pad of her thumb tenderly strokes the underside of your jaw. “I-It’s a li-little late for dinner, isn’t it?” Your voice comes out at least an octave higher than usual. 

“You haven’t eaten, have you?” she questions wryly, though there’s something about the glint in her eye that tells you she already knows the answer. 

“N-No, I—”

“Skipped dinner, again,” Natasha finishes for you, her voice colored with a patronizing note of disapproval that succeeds all too easily at making you feel impossibly small. “I hate it when you do that, любимая.”

You swallow thickly. “S-Sorry… ?”

“Is that a question?”

You try to shake your head ‘No,’ but Natasha’s unyielding grip holds you still. “N-No.” (You’re starting to get a bad feeling about this.)

“Good,” she purrs, tilting her head and appraising you with raised brows and a wholly unreadable look in her eye. “So. Dinner, then?”

“O-Okay.”

— —

You’re not sure what you’d been expecting when Natasha had extended the offer for dinner. Maybe a quick trip to the 24-hour deli across the street, or perhaps the little Mediterranean hole-in-the-wall place a couple blocks down that always stayed open well into the wee hours of early morning. 

Either way, when she walks you over to an intimidating-looking motorcycle with a hand at the small of your back before wordlessly thrusting a helmet your way and telling you to hop on, you’re… surprised, to say the very least. Still, you don’t verbalize a protest. The no-nonsense look in her eye along with her decidedly frigid demeanor is giving you the distinctive sense that that isn’t likely to end well for you. 

“Hold on,” she orders. 

You quickly obey, wrapping your arms around her waist and squeezing like a lifeline. 

She chuckles, low and throaty, like that amuses her. (It probably does.) You feel your cheeks get hot. 

“First time on a motorcycle?” she questions, pitching her voice just a notch above the growling _hum_ of the engine. 

You bury your face in between her shoulder blades, abashed. You’re conflicted to note that she smells of smoke and patchouli and summertime—a combination that shouldn’t be at all palatable, but is somehow mouth-watering when it comes to her. 

“Yeah,” you murmur. 

“Don’t worry, родная. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

In spite of everything, you feel your lips curve into a tentative smile. “I trust you,” you whisper. It’s not a lie. _God, how you pray she doesn’t make you regret it_. 

— —

You’ve never been to Natasha’s living quarters before—barring her designated floor in the Tower, that is. 

It’s both exactly and not at all what you’d expect from her. (Though, as time passes and Natasha’s mood only seems to grow increasingly more cryptic by the second, you’re starting to wonder if she’d ever really been more than a perfect stranger to you at all.)

For starters, it’s a penthouse—lavish, sleek, modern. Very Tony Stark. The security, however, is all Natasha—retinal scanner at the shiny thick-as-hell metal door. Complicated multilingual coded conversation with the armed bellhop on floor one. Keypad in the elevator—numeral passcode of utterly obscene length. (You think you manage to count 10 digits Natasha types in before losing count.) 

Also in the elevator—a keyhole. Natasha brandishes the latchkey (presumably) in a blur of silver, inserts it and turns the lock with an effortless flick of the wrist. Her face remains impassive as the elevator then begins its ascent. 

“Good evening, Miss Romanoff,” comes a cool, familiar female voice from overhead with a charming Irish lilt. _F.R.I.D.A.Y_. “And Miss Y/L/N. Always a pleasure.”

Natasha shoots you a meaningful sidelong glance, manicured brows raised expectantly. 

You clear your throat awkwardly. “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y. And, um, like I said—it’s just Y/N.”

“Boss was very clear in his instructions, Miss Y/L/N. Only when you begin to address him as ‘Tony’ will I cede your request.” 

You swear you can hear a note of smugness in the A.I.’s infuriatingly placid inflection. “Jackass,” you grumble, only half joking. 

Natasha stiffens beside you. “Behave,” she warns in a low voice.

The command washes over you like a bucket of ice water, and you immediately fall silent.

No one speaks for the remainder of the ride up. 

The elevator leads directly out into a spacious interior with tall ceilings and gleaming marble floors. A solid ⅔s of it serves as a plush lounge space—divans and loveseats made of impossibly soft-looking material, two rectangular glass coffee tables in the center, a massive flat-screen TV mounted up against one of the plexiglass walls. 

A thin hallway sits between that and the kitchen, which appears small in comparison to the lounge but you can easily tell is at least three times as large as yours. 

It’s at precisely that point that it dawns on you that you’re not alone… well, besides Natasha, that is. 

A blonde woman tends to a crackling stove in the posh kitchen, her back to the two of you. If Natasha is at all put off by her presence there, she doesn’t let on. On the contrary, she’s stoic as ever: guiding you over with a hand at the small of your back and a completely neutral expression upon her attractive features—betraying nothing.

“You’re back,” comes a lofty, Russian-accented drawl from the woman at the stove. 

You don’t recognize it. Or her. 

There’s a familiar fragrance in the air—sticky rice, freshly-cut vegetables… _soy sauce_ , if you’re not mistaken. Like your grandmother’s house at dinnertime. 

When you reach the counter, you have to do a double take at what you see: Tonkatsu sauce in a bowl, sushi rolls atop a makisu (a thin mat made of bamboo and cotton string used for rolling sushi). The blonde woman’s figure blocks your view, but at this point, you’d be willing to bet money that the crackling from atop the stove is Tonkatsu chicken. 

Just like dinner at grandma’s house. 

It’s a peculiar detail, so unanticipated and out of the blue; it only serves to unnerve you all the more. 

“Dinner almost ready?” Natasha asks.

Finally the blonde woman turns. She’s gorgeous, unsurprisingly—well-defined jawline, dark perfectly-shaped brows, catlike hazel eyes. She stands shorter than Natasha by a couple inches (making her still an inch or two taller than yourself), although her build is much the same: lithe, compact... womanly. 

You still don’t recognize her. 

“Nearly,” the blonde replies, brow cocked in something like a challenge. Next, she turns her shrewd gaze upon you, drinking you in. “Is this her?”

You fight the urge to squirm beneath her appraisal. “Wh-Who are you? What’s happening?”

The woman snorts, like she finds your trepidation amusing. “She is truly precious, Natalia. I can see why she enamors you so.”

Natasha’s arm snakes its way around your waist, pulling you snugly against her. “Yes,” she hums in agreement, her other hand coming up to trail along the underside of your jaw. “She is.”

You shudder, nuzzling your face into the crook of Natasha’s neck. Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “Why are you doing this?” you plead quietly. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Aw,” Natasha coos, her hand falling to curl loosely around your throat. It feels a gesture meant as much to console as it does to threaten. “Don’t cry, солнышко.”

“Not unless you wish for us to give you something to _really_ cry about.”

“Русская,” Natasha admonishes lightly even as her grip tightens subtly around your throat. “Play nice.”

A shuffling sound, followed by a brief click and then silence—no more crackling from the stove, just your own panicked breathing in your ears. 

You turn your head a little to peek over at her, tensing when you realize she’s staring right back. “Who _are_ you?” you ask again, your voice shaky. “I don’t know you. What do you want with me?”

“Боже мой,” the woman groans, circling around the counter and approaching you from the other side. “She’s _asking_ for it, Natalia.”

Natasha gently turns you to face the advancing blonde, then maneuvers herself behind you. Her hand doesn’t leave your throat. “Very well,” she relents, sounding only mildly exasperated. “Let’s make this quick, hm? Our little one still hasn’t eaten yet.”

— —

“Yelena Belova,” the blonde woman says, her warm breath ghosting across your lips. Her hands fall upon your hips, deft fingers fiddling idly with the hem of your scrubs. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

You gulp, hands twitching idly at your sides. “Wh-What are you—?”

“Shhh.” Yelena’s fingers stroke along the waistband of your scrubs, slipping beneath the elastic and making you clench your thighs together with a shudder. “Relax.”

Natasha’s grip abruptly tightens around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway. “Legs apart, and I’ll let you breathe” she murmurs. 

“Please,” you wheeze mutely, tears welling in your eyes. Yelena dips her head to nuzzle her pert nose just over the hem of your V-neck scrubs. It does little to distract from the sensation of her hand slipping completely beneath your waistband, the pads of her fingers teasing the cotton of your panties. 

“Legs apart,” Natasha repeats in a steely tone that leaves absolutely no room for negotiation. 

Your chin wobbles with the effort to hold back tears, but this time you heed her direction. 

“Good _girl_ ,” Natasha praises emphatically, before immediately loosening her hold around your throat as promised.

You whimper as Yelena begins to drag feather-light strokes over the rapidly dampening crotch of your panties, circling your clit. 

“Don’t do this,” you plead, despair choking your words. “ _Please_.”

They ignore you.

“Sensitive,” Yelena murmurs into the skin beneath your collarbone, her fingers retracting for a moment to slip beneath the elastic waist of your panties. 

You try to wriggle your hips (whether to escape her touch or lean further into it, you don’t know), but Natasha’s arm snakes around your hips, effectively stopping you in place. That, in combination with her snug grasp upon your neck, does well to ensure you won’t be moving any time soon. 

The sensation of a single finger probing your wetness, trailing smoothly from entrance to clit, rips a keening whine from the back of your throat that you bite your lower lip _hard_ to stifle. _Fuck_.

“Oh, Natalia,” Yelena groans. “She’s so _wet_.” 

You feel your cheeks flame at that, and for what feels like the millionth time, you breathe an internal sigh of relief at knowing it won’t show through the tanned russet hues of your skin.

“Please, I don’t know why you’re _doing_ this—”

Without warning, Yelena sinks a single digit into your clenching hole all the way down to the knuckle, effectively making you swallow down the rest of your sentence. 

“Tight, too.” She pulls back to watch you as she curls her finger inside you to make you gasp, then roughly grinds the heel of her palm against your distended clit until you’re choking back wails. 

Your legs tremble beneath you, unease roiling in your gut alongside a tidal wave of arousal. 

“Please,” you beg (though for it to stop or for more, you don’t know anymore). 

Yelena smirks, pulling out of you until only her fingertip remains before easing another finger in alongside the first. 

They sink inside you down to the knuckle, and you have to bite back a sob as they brush along that special spot inside you, the one that none of your past boyfriends could ever seem to find—the one that never failed to make you scream. 

“Oh, you felt that, didn’t you?” Yelena’s grin turns predatory, wolfish. “That’s your spot.” 

She pulls out, begins pumping her fingers in and out of you at a slow, languid pace. On every thrust, they graze _just right_ against that spongy place along your front wall, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of something explosive. 

“You’re going to come for us, aren’t you?” Natasha purrs, fingers stroking gently along your throat. 

You jerkily shake your head. “I don’t—I don’t wanna—”

“Shh,” Yelena shushes you and quickens her pace, slamming crudely against your clit on every thrust. 

“C’mon, любимая,” Natasha urges. “Let it happen.”

Your climax builds briskly in your gut—climbing, climbing, climbing; making you tense and writhe and _sob_.

It’s no use, of course—your struggling, that is. 

Natasha’s grip on you is like iron—unyielding, firm. The more you squirm, the tighter she holds you. 

The lights of the room begin to blur around you; Yelena slides a third finger into you, and the stretch is nothing short of glorious—too much and not enough all in one. Her calloused palm grinds _hard_ against your clit, her fingers curl inside you, rubbing that perfect spot _just right_ to make you howl—

You come with a scream, every muscle in your body pulled taut, a gush of wetness drenching Yelena’s hand. Natasha grips your hip tightly enough to bruise as you arch obscenely back into her, fingers loose around your neck, murmured praises whispered against the shell of your ear. 

Coming down is like a dream: vision hazy, chest heaving from exertion, body racked with spasms. 

And through it all, Natasha and Yelena are _there_ —an arm around your waist, teeth biting the skin just beneath your collarbone, fingers pumping shallowly in and out of your most sensitive parts. 

You’re not sure when you begin to cry, but you do. All the anguish in your chest bursts like a dam, the tears start, and they don’t fucking stop. 

Exhaustion darkens the edges of your vision, pulling you further and further away from a reality you’re not all that sure you want to be a part of any longer.

The last thing you register before it all goes black is Natasha’s silken voice telling you, “You’ve done so well, солнышко. Rest now. It’s okay… It’s okay.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> солнышко | _solnishko_ | sunshine [term of endearment]  
> любимая | _lubimaya_ | dear / darling [term of endearment]  
> родная | _rodnaya_ | dear [term of endearment]  
> русская | _rooskaya_ | russian female (an affectionate nickname for yelena used by natasha in the comics)  
> боже мой | _bozhe moi_ | "my god" 
> 
> just made another account for this stuff... i think it'll be better cause organization and sometimes the asks you guys send me about stories slip through the cracks on my main blog, so search it up @novoaa1writes on tumblr ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))


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